In Poetry

In Poetry

As a poet, artist, creative person...I really do wish I had a bad-ass title, I have certain poets that are dear to me. I became a published poet at aged 11 and the bug has never really left me. My (Welsh) culture is infused with poetry in a way that England is not. Poetry and the love of words is not something for “rich toffs” as it is seen here, but a web of words and being woven into the lives of ordinary people. I first wrote poems to explain the vivid images and feelings I experienced. Snippets of other people’s lives, deep memories from centuries ago, the heart-achingly beautiful nature all around me, to capture them in some form.

At the time I would have loved to paint but my co-ordination and execution were not good enough for me and in this frustration I created pictures with words. I remember writing a poem in the style of Samuel Peeps about the fire of London, I must have been about 8. The next one I remember was about a Second World War pilot for the competition at 11. It was published in a little book and I remember the poem on the other side of the page to mine more than my own. (It was about having an amazing older sister, I was enthralled and mystified.) I received an award from Brian Pattern at a theatre in Mold. There are no photos of me gaining it or anything. No framed poems at my parents houses.

I received Gargling with Jelly, a children’s book of poetry, which allowed me to be able to see that poetry could be funny and foamy, as well as deep and full of raw emotion. The next poet I found were singers, from jazz classics like Love for Sale to Kim Wild’s heart felt and angry words. I don’t exactly remember when I found Dylan Thomas. At school competitive poetry performance was a big deal and I feel like I heard him long before I read him. Cargoes by John Masefield and Bed in Summer by Robert Lewis Stevenson were two I performed with and won with. Both full of character and rich with imagery my next poet and I had a long affair. Billy Waggle-Dagger or William Shakespeare was something like discovering a whole culture of exotic and spicy food. It was the richness, the sumptuousness and that it was not a bite, but a feast. Shakespeare, like Thomas, have this utter joy and delight in words to be spoken. It is storytelling, and so much more. Henry V has one of my favourites, not that I could pick easily. It is easy for me to believe an actor wrote these plays, because of how the words feel in the mouth.

You might have noticed something, none of these voices were women. Until university I had not experienced female “poets”. University was terrible for me. It was brutal and invasive. Cruel and pointless. Having been writing so long it was jarring to be told my “voice was wrong”. More disturbing to me was the news that once I handed in my word it could be published without my knowledge or consent. This actually happened to one of my peers, he didn’t even get a decent mark for it! One of my “lecturers” I won’t call her a teacher read one of my experimental pieces and called it “nice”. Nice it was not. Dark, disturbing, full of trauma and pain, but not nice. In desperation for some actual feed back I gave to a lecturer who was a writing tutor but took me for Contextual Studies workshop/group. She did two things. The first was properly go through it and ask questions like “Does this need to be here?” or “Could you expand this idea” and so on. The next thing she did actually saved my life. She said “read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath”.

Sylvia

I feel a sorrow Hard to see.

I didn't save Sylvia

When she saved me.

Though she was already

A long time dead

Before the conversations

Within my head

She gave me a fragile

Needle of hope

A strange togetherness

That helped me cope.

For when Sylvia was there I was not alone.

She felt what I felt Mind, Spirit and Bone.

For her prison was a prison for me

Her understandings

Set me free.

I feel a sorrow

Hard to see.

I didn't save Sylvia

When she 

Saved Me. 

I happened to re-read just a short line of her work last night and it all came flooding back. Maybe because she was my first, or because she was good. Of course I have read and enjoyed many other poets male and female since but Sylvia will always be special to me.

Bright Blessings xx